I LONG TO BE ALONE IN THE SOUTH

Perhaps my feeble eyes will never see the south
with its evanescent landscapes sleeping in the air,
with bodies like flowers under shade of branches
or fleeing in a gallop of furious horses.

The south is a desert that cries as it sings,
and that voice does not fade like a dead bird;
but towards the sea guides its bitter desires
opening a weak echo that lives slowly.

Into that so-distant south I want to be infused.
There, the rain is a half-opened rose;
there, even the mist laughs, a white smile in the wind.
The south’s darkness, its light, are equal beauties.